


These several years out at sea

by august_the_real



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-03
Updated: 2015-01-03
Packaged: 2018-03-05 04:09:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3105101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/august_the_real/pseuds/august_the_real
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You had allowed yourself to think about a life outside of this war, your apocalypse."</p>
            </blockquote>





	These several years out at sea

Title: These several years out at sea  
Author: august  
email: mrsrosiebojangles@gmail.com

 

The speech you rehearsed dissolves the moment Adama opens the latch. He doesn’t say anything, just steps aside to let you in and then circles the latch close behind you. You stand awkwardly, like you need his permission to come closer. 

You say, “This is not how it was supposed to be.” 

 

You were in the CIC when the Fleet jumped into Earth's orbit. There was a nervous energy, an expectation of a future not in the sky. Then, suddenly, it was Gaeta saying, "Sir, I'm picking up massive radiation readings from the planet. And, frak – Cylons."

Everything after that was confusion. Adama screamed for more information, more readings, and you couldn't stop staring at the DIDAS screen where you counted fifty, no, sixty Cylon base ships. 

"Frak," you had whispered.  
"Frak!" Adama yelled, "Gaeta, get us out of here. Jump co-ordinates to the rest of the Fleet; let's go!"

Your knuckles whitened on the desk in front of you as you prepared for the jump. 

 

He doesn't say anything when you appear outside his hatch and now he hands you a drink and settles heavily into a chair. 

You brace yourself, ready for him to berate you, for him to say the kind of things you’ve been thinking since you jumped out of Earth’s orbit: that the last three years have amounted to nothing; that this is not how the Prophesies were supposed to end. 

That you are going to die on this ship. 

When he finally looks at you, he says, “I’ve been thinking-if we were just one week earlier, we may have been able to warn them. We may have been able to stop it this time.”

You’re both megalomaniacs with sacrificial complexes. You cross the room, meaning to take his hand, but when you sit next to him he stiffens and stills. You drink.

 

You had allowed yourself to imagine. You had allowed yourself to hope. You had closed your eyes and dreamt up a small house in a sunny city with an outside dining area where you would invite friends over to dinner and then, when they left, sit under the stars and drink ambrosia. You had allowed yourself to think about a life outside of this war, your apocalypse.

Your body jolts forward slightly, the warning sign for an upcoming jump. Your grandmother used to say jump-lag was when the soul had to catch up to the body that had jumped away from it. Lately you’ve been thinking of all the jumps in the past three years-hundreds, maybe, and you’ve started wondering where the frak your soul is. If you’ll ever find it again. 

“That’s the ninth jump since we left orbit,” he says, pouring himself, and you, another drink.

“I know,” you say, “I’ve been counting.”

You had allowed yourself to imagine and allowed yourself to hope and as a result the last of your civilisation ended up in orbit around a planet full of radiation and corpses while the Cylons bore down on you fast. 

“I’m sorry, Bill. I’m so sorry. I really believed-”

He interrupts you, “-we all believed. This is not your responsibility; there were plans to find Earth long before your visions.”

“Those plans were a lie.”

He laughs, a little. “Yeah. It would have been better if they’d stayed that way.”

You sit in silence, sipping the drinks he keeps pouring. Finally, his glass hits the table heavily and he sighs, “why are you here, Laura?”

Truthfully, it’s because you have nowhere else to go. 

Instead, you say, “What happens now?”

He laughs, again, almost and says, “I have no idea. We keep jumping. We keep jumping.”

The plan is as illogical to you now as it was when you first heard it on CIC. You say, with attempted levity, “and jumping?”

He shoots you an assessing glare. "You got a better idea?"

"The last time I checked, these were the kind of decisions government and military made together, Bill."

He says, again, "You got a better idea?"

"Better than jumping until our Tillium runs out?"

“Yes, maybe, until our Tillium runs out, until our food runs out, until our frakking crew runs out!” You are trying not to get angry.

“And we spend the rest of our lives in space? Until our ships turn to scrap metal and can’t fly?”

“As opposed to what? Settling on a planet and wait for the Cylons to come? Spread ourselves out and hope that at least one colony survives?”

“I don’t know,” you say, “maybe, yes.”

He sighs, “Well let’s just wait and see what the next elected official says. And the one after that; and the one after that.”

“Frak you.”

“Frak you, Laura, don’t act like you have ownership over this. We frakked up. We all frakked up. Earth is gone and we start again.”

“You mean the government starts again. The uniforms stay the same.” 

“This uniform knows how to fly the frakking ship-” He reminds you.

“-and fire the frakking guns? Is that where this is going?”

“I don’t know; where is this going?”

He’s angry and you’re angry, not to mention tired, jump-lagged and, if your grandmother was right, soulless as well. Your glass is empty and you stare into it wishing it held leaves and a divine answer. 

You say, quietly, “we need to not talk to each other like this. We need to have this conversation when we’ve had a little more sleep and a little less booze.”

“Is that an order, Madam President?” 

You sigh and you’re surprised to find that you’re close to tears. Your voice shakes as you say, “I have nothing left in me, Bill. I can’t fight with you. Please don’t make me fight with you.” You take your glasses off and put your head in your hands. A part of you expects him to cross the room, to sit next to you, put a hand on your shoulder. The other part knows he’s sitting across from you, studying you; waiting. 

He does nothing and you do nothing and this is the way it has always been. 

You stand up. “I should go. Thank you for the drink.”

You’re acutely aware of him watching you walk to the door. The wheel on the hatch is cold to your touch and you grip it as tightly as you did the desk in CIC when you first jumped out of Earth’s orbit. 

You rest your forehead against the hatch and whisper, “I have nowhere to go.” 

“Then don't leave.”

Your fingers draw small patterns on the wheel and you nod.

He says, “come here, Laura, I want to frak you.”

 

He’s rough with you, maybe rougher than you’d prefer but you don’t mind because it’s been so long since you’ve felt lips on your neck and busy hands undressing you. He doesn’t say a word, breathes heavily, and you hear material rip, look down and wonder how Tory is going to get you another shirt. 

He’s pushing up your skirt and his pants are at his knees and he’s stronger, faster than you, has one hand on his cock and the other hand between your legs. Your body betrays you, of course, and your legs instinctively open wider, you’re lifting yourself onto the edge of the couch to counter the height differential. 

This is not how it’s supposed to be. 

He has one hand on your calf now, lifting your leg far higher than your yoga classes ever did. Your other leg flails uselessly, not touching the floor, not touching anything. You brace yourself with your hands as he touches you, watches your face intently as you respond. 

This is more than you had- this is not how- this is- the end of the world, maybe, and he’s frakking you on the side of a chair. His fingers move on you, in you and you're holding his gaze and biting your lip. Your orgasm is not unexpected, it’s been so long and he has talented hands. You close your eyes, he’s breathing heavily and he says, “Stand up, Laura, and turn around.”

You say, “you don’t give a girl much of a chance to recover,” but you’re not laughing and neither is he. 

His voice is lower than you’re ever heard it as he says, “Turn around, Laura.” 

Your feet touch the ground but you don't turn around, you take his cock in your hands and then you're on our knees with him in your mouth. His hands wind through your hair and you expect him to pull you to your feet and turn you around himself. Instead, he says, “so disobedient” and then moans, winding your hair in his fist, tighter and tighter, tighter and tighter until he comes, suddenly, quietly.

 

You sit on his floor, watching him fasten his trousers, his belt, run a hand through his hair. You’re in no hurry to get dressed and you think how funny it is that the first sleep you’ll get in 72 hours could be on the floor of the Admiral’s quarters. 

He walks to you holding a bottle and two glasses. You’re surprised as he lowers himself to the floor with an “oompf.” The alcohol is clear with orange flecks; you’ve not had it before. By the way it burns the back of your throat you suspect it’s Vintage Galactica. Adama laughs at the grimace on your face. 

“It’s nice to hear you laugh,” you say.

He smooths a hand along your thigh and then touches your shoulder, your ribs. He brushes a thumb against your nipple.

You smile against the rim of your glass and then lean in to kiss him for the first time. 

“So, what do we do now?” He asks, finally.   
“I don’t know,” you answer, “we keep jumping.”


End file.
